Penguin Lost by Andrey Kurkov Read Free Book Online Page B

tell him it’s not me who’s to blame for his troubles. It was Litovchenko who framed me. Why should I depart this life blamed for the sins of others! Simply tell Mother I’m abroad, lying low, and shall be for some time. My brother you can tell the truth, which is, alas, that when you get this, I shall be no more. In some strange way they’ve got at me even here. Through the cook. All night I’m in agony but by morning it eases. I wish the sods had gone for something short and sharp, instead of making sure I suffer. Sorry, I’m on about myself again. The money should last quite a while. The bearer will give you my credit card and PIN. That’s it, then. A big hug. There’ll be thousands at my funeral – all king penguins, says he, joking to the last. All my love, Stanislav.
    Viktor lay thinking again of the Antarctic, Bronikovsky, and hosts of penguins wanting only their prodigal son Misha to return for their happiness to be complete. The sooner the election was over, the sooner he would be free to search. By both a happy and an unhappy coincidence, he would be delivering the letter to Moscow, where Misha was!
    Some time later a car drove in, and through the open window he heard voices. The image makers and their driver were back from the sauna. Zhora sounded well lit up.
    *
    Next morning Viktor breakfasted alone. At nine, Andrey Pavlovich, still in dark trousers, white shirt and bow tie, popped his head around the door, weary but smiling.
    “Make me a nice cup of coffee,” he said, and disappeared.
    He was soon back, now in a tracksuit. Gratefully he took the coffee, and spooned in sugar. “How’s it going?” he asked.
    Viktor shrugged. “You’ve not given them anything more to get on with.”
    Andrey Pavlovich smiled. “Or anything less. Don’t worry. Just asking. Your main task now is to keep an eye on them. You might learn something. Back in good time, were they?”
    “At about four …” Then, taking breath, he added, “How long
is
it to the election?”
    “Two weeks.”
    “Not long, then.”
    “Don’t worry – I’ve been meeting my electorate. The problem at the moment is my dilatory opponent – no posters, just leaflets in post boxes. Not a word against me. I don’t like it.”
    “Maybe he’s a decent chap.”
    Andrey Pavlovich gave him a withering look. “Elections are a competition to see who can outspit the other – it’s for him to prove I’m no good, and for me to prove he’s no good.”
    “Which you’re not actually doing.”
    “Not my job,” he snapped, “I’ve men doing that, 40 of them! Keep my nose clean, wear a tie, shave, that’s what I do.”
    At that moment Pasha came bursting in with a rolled up poster which he handed to Andrey Pavlovich.
    “Know where he’s getting this printed?” Andrey Pavlovich demanded, face contorted with rage.
    “Belaya Tserkov.”
    “Bloody idiots. So now what?”
    “May I see?” said Viktor.
    The poster showed a crew-cut, visibly brainless, mildly disdainful-looking man banally promising a solution to the housing problem within five years by dint of State investment.
    “You don’t get it, do you?” said Andrey Pavlovich. “Photos, Pasha!”
    They were enlarged picnic photographs showing a man not unlike Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent. “His brother?”
    “No,
him!”
    And comparing the scarred right cheek and bruiser’s broken nose of the photo with the classical profile of the poster, Viktor saw the reason for Andrey Pavlovich’s anger.
    “You’ve got half an hour to come up with something, Pasha,” Andrey Pavlovich said sharply. “And you, Viktor, rouse our image makers. They’ve got half an hour to decide how to put that bloody scar back!”
    With which he left, banging the door behind him.
    “A fine mess we’re in!” said Pasha. “How are we supposed to know what they’re printing where? We’re not State Security.”
    “I’ll wake up Zhora,” Viktor said, getting to his feet.
    “Damn Zhora!” Pasha sa